


Maglor's Muse

by fandomblr



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Asexual, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Asexuality Spectrum, M/M, Oh and both Daeron and Maglor are on the asexual spectrum, Yes Daeron is a bicon and Maglor doesn't quite know what label he is but he sure is queer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:07:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28389765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomblr/pseuds/fandomblr
Summary: During the Mereth Aderthad Maglor has a unique encounter with Daeron, minstrel of Doriath, and the elf arouses feelings in him that he had never quite felt before.
Relationships: Daeron/Maglor | Makalaurë
Kudos: 19





	Maglor's Muse

A day ago, back when his sanity was in hand and his heart wasn't racing in infatuation, Makalaurë had thought that he was never to be loved again, at least not in the amorous sense. That he was to remain unloved, as he had always been, even during his marriage. 

He had never been more mistaken in his entire life. 

The Mereth Aderthad was flowing with a bullicious crowd, with as many kindreds of elves as they could manage. Makalaurë had not cared much for it, sitting down next to his younger brothers, who were soon gone to woo several elven maidens. That was until the music began and the Sindar arrived.

His eye was caught by the elf playing a set of pipes. He had flowing dark hair, adorned with laurel leaves. The musician turned his head, and at that moment his heart skipped a beat. His hair seemed the more brilliant, and his tanned complexion mimicked the rays of the sun. His eyes, deep and almond-like in color, seemed to wink at him for a fraction of a second, and his glossy lips were curved in a smile. Makalaurë, having not expected such a gesture from him, fell from his seat in such a manner that the chair collapsed and made a loud creaking noise, stirring the crowd. The music stopped for a brief second, and even his musician (why did he think of him in such a way? He did not even know his name!) stared at him with genuine concern. He seemed as if he were about to stand up, but a hand reached his shoulder, halting the musician.

“Kano! Are you alright?” He heard one of his brothers say, possibly one of Ambarussa. 

“You could hear that noise all the way from the dancing floor,” Curufinwë said with a hint of annoyance in his voice. 

Tyelkormo chuckled. “Certainly. Even Huan stirred from his place.” 

“Stop vexing him, will you? At least he wasn't going up the skirts of a maiden,” Carnistir grumbled, and he and Russandol helped him up. 

Russandol walked towards his younger brother. “Kano, why don't you go up there and play the harp along with the minstrel? I’m sure he would like some help.” 

The prospect of meeting the Sinda (who happened to be his newly acquired infatuation) only flustered Makalaurë even more. “Findaráto could do it. I have taught him much of what I know.” 

Russandol pointed to where their blonde-haired cousin stood, immersed in a conversation with the Sindar lieutenant. “Findaráto is with the lieutenant. Beleg, I believe that is his name.” 

“Findekáno can play as well,” Makalaurë insisted. 

“Uh, well…” Russandol turned nearly to the same shade of his hair. 

Makalaurë sighed. “Findekáno is with you, is he not?” 

Russandol pressed his lips in a thin line. “Aha.”

“And you want me to distract our uncle while you and our half-cousin are messing around, do you not?” He said, the irony evident in his voice. 

“I wouldn't say ‘messing around.’ More like ‘having a small diversion’…”

“Spare me the details, Nelyo, I am on my way,” he said sourly, marching firmly towards the musician.

“Well, thank you! I owe you one!” Makalaurë heard his brother shout, but he did not reply, too busy thinking about his next words to the harpist. What was he to say, that he was there mainly to save his brother and cousin from being discovered by his uncle in the middle of making out? 

But when he actually approached the minstrel his mind went blank at his beauty. Indeed he was even much lovelier in person, standing up and face to face. The elf’s face brightened as he walked up to him. “Why, you must be Maglor the singer, mightiest poet of the Noldor! It is quite an honor to meet you. I must admit I quite admire your work, namely the _Noldolantë._ I find it quite fascinating.” 

Not having expected such a warm welcome, Makalaurë was at a loss of words. “I… uh…” He mentally reprimanded himself for being so awkward, but none of his timidness mattered now. _Think_ , he said to himself, _what would Tyelkormo do?_

Tyelkormo, he thought bitterly, would jump straight to the opportunity and steal a kiss from the lady he fancied, even if it risked her wrath and possible slapping. When his younger brother wanted something or someone, he was eager to obtain it at any cost. But how could he, a social inept who had only kissed an unloving wife on his wedding day, woo the magnificent being next to him? No, this would not do. “Pleased to meet you,” those were all the words he could utter. 

The minstrel smiled with such radiance that it almost flashed Makalaurë out for a second. He then proceeded to sit and play his pipes and invited him to do the same with his harp. “Would you like to accompany me to play a song? I am sure there is much we can learn from each other.” 

Such an invitation took Makalaurë off guard, but soon he noticed the irresistibility of it. “Of course,” he said, almost running out of breath. 

The minstrel smiled again as he put down his pipes. “I can sing if you wish. I would imagine you would rather play the harp.” 

Makalaurë could only assent at this time and began to play a random tune, but soon he became aware of what it was. It was no other than the same tune he had played at Curufinwë’s wedding. Infuriated with his own foolishness, Makalaurë attempted to change the song, but all to no avail. The minstrel had already begun to sing as if he did not care for the embarrassingly romantic tone of the song. Rather, he seemed to encourage it, with his singing along the harping. 

_I've just seen a face,_ _  
_ _I can't forget the time or place_ _  
_ _Where we just met._ _  
_ _He’s just the one for me_ _  
_ _And I want all the world to see_ _  
_ _We've met._

 _Had it been another day_ _  
_ _I might have looked the other way_ _  
_ _And I'd have never been aware._ _  
_ _But as it is I'll dream of him_ _  
_ _Tonight,_

 _Falling, yes I am falling,_ _  
_ _And he keeps calling_ _  
_ _Me back again._

 _I have never known_ _  
_ _The like of this, I've been alone_ _  
_ _And I have missed things_ _  
_ _And kept out of sight_ _  
_ _But other ones were never quite_ _  
_ _Like this,_

 _Falling, yes I am falling,_ _  
_ _And he keeps calling_ _  
_ _Me back again._

 _I've just seen a face,_ _  
_ _I can't forget the time or place_ _  
_ _Where we just met._ _  
_ _He's just the one for me_ _  
_ _And I want all the world to see_ _  
_ _We've met,_

 _Falling, yes I am falling,_ _  
_ _And he keeps calling_ _  
_ _Me back again._ _  
  
_

As soon as he ceased his singing, a round of applause was heard across the crowd, which only excited an already aroused Makalaurë further. _He did not write that song for you, idiot,_ he scolded himself. _You do not even know his name._

 _But did he truly not write it for you?_ A small voice within his mind asked. After all, had he not been referring to a 'he', to an alleged male the whole time? The flirtatious glances he had sent to him through the entirety of the song were evidence of it. Yet still…

His thoughts were abruptly interrupted by his suitor’s talking. The minstrel directed his words to the elf next to him, who had been making grimaces of abhorrence the whole time. “Mablung, why don’t you take our harpist here to the empty guest room over there? I will be reading myself.”

Mablung seemed only further vexed by his friend’s request, but did not deny him this. “Come with me,” he grumbled. Makalaurë did not say otherwise, even though he knew perfectly well where the guest room was located, being far too aroused by the minstrel and intimated by Mablung. He followed the Sinda to the room that was awaiting them, as the harpist went the other direction. He winked towards Makalaurë, which only made him stumble upon his feet. 

***

Daeron stood behind the pillars of the wall, brushing his lustrous hair several times. Mablung walked next to him, grim in expression and fell in mood. “Your _harpist_ is in the guest room,” he said, with a drop of sarcasm in his voice. 

Daeron smiled. “He is handsome, is he not? And talented too.”

Mablung snapped at hearing the remark. “Cut this off, will you not? It is plain for everyone to see that you are not just merely sharing ‘musical inspiration’ from each other. Even the blonde next to Beleg had enough wit to see through your wooing.”

“King Finrod Felagund of Nargothrond, you must mean. And if you must know, many call him among the wisest elves of the Noldor.” 

Mablung huffed. “This is not about Felagund and you know it. What are your intentions with the Noldo, Daeron? For all we know, he is a kinslayer.”  
  
Daeron remained as tranquil as earlier. “We have all made our mistakes, both Sindar and Noldor alike. Our king had to leave his brother behind, Lord Olwë, to establish our prosperous land. And do not let us forget that Lord Fëanor was the one that initiated the kinslaying and the dreadful oath, not his sons. Even his eldest, Maedhros or so he is called, refused to burn the ships along his father.”

Mablung hated nothing more than when his friend contradicted him with his knowledge. “Yet Maglor is not Maedhros. What are your intentions with him, for Eru’s sake? I would not be so naive as to believe that you are merely sitting down and composing songs.”  
  
Daeron avoided such a question by planting one instead. “And where, if I may respond to your interrogatory with another question, are you going with this, my friend? Since when are you so interested in my affairs?”

Mablung groaned. “Eru, can you not see it so? I am trying to save you from another heartbreak, Daeron. For all we know, the son of Fëanor is straight and married to a maiden. Manwë knows he could even be a father at this point!”  
  
“Fëanor only had one grandchild, and it is Celebrimbor son of Curufin. And as for marriage, only three of Feanor’s sons married. What makes you think it could be him?”   
  
Mablung rolled his eyes in a sigh. “He has been estranged from his wife. I heard one of his brothers say. Why would I lie to you?”   
  
It was Daeron’s time to sigh. “If he is estranged from his wife then neither of them must have loved each other greatly. And I assure you, you need not worry about my wellbeing. I can take care of myself very well, thank you.”

Mablung raised an eyebrow. “Really? What about Lúthien?”

Daeron’s breathing raised to a dangerously dense rhythm. “What about her?” 

Mablung writhed his hands in despair. “Have you truly forgotten her as you say you do? Every single time you say you are over her your heart keeps turning to her, even when rejection is certain. How do you know you will not do the same this time? I mean it for both her and the Fëanorian if he is to reject your affections.”

“It is different this time. She has made it evident that she has no love for me, only friendship,” Daeron’s tone was softer this time, almost painful. 

“Since when has that stopped you? She has never shown a sign of love for you, only friendship. She has always referred to you as her _brother,_ and nothing else. Yet it never made a difference until now, until she expressed it explicitly. And to think that King Thingol almost went along with it! He even joked about adopting you…”

“You know where to stab when it truly hurts, don’t you?” Daeron exclaimed accusingly, nearly on the verge of tears.

Mablung’s tone became softer, realizing he had wounded his friend. “I am only trying to protect you,” he said, in a weak attempt to apologize. 

But Daeron was far too grieved to accept any sort of apology. “This is not just about me, is it? It is about you and Beleg. Ever since the two of you ended your courtship the more bitter you have become towards my love for Lúthien, and now towards my love for Maglor. Can you not accept that others can obtain what you lack?”

“You are mistaken. This has nothing to do with me,” Mablung replied gravely. 

Yet his words were said in vain, for Daeron ignored them. “You hold resentment against Beleg and against Felagund when you cannot even see behind what is truly happening! Beleg is not even close to having a relationship with him, and Felagund has even sworn earlier not to marry!” Determined to leave his spot, Daeron walked, not minding the tear that ran across his face.

“Daeron!” Called Mablung, but Daeron did not mind him. “Daeron, we must leave after dawn. DAERON! COME BACK!!” Mablung shouted again, but to no avail.

***

Makalaurë sat down in the cushioned seat of the guest room as he harped a couple of strings here and there, waiting for his minstrel. _When he comes I shall ask him for his name_ , he thought with determination. However, not much time was left for him to muster up the courage to ask for the minstrel’s name since the door was opened by him. However, his beautiful face seemed dimmed, as if the light had escaped from him, and his eyes were slightly glassy, almost reddened as if he had wept. “Are you alright?” Makalaurë asked with concern, his timidness evading at last. 

“Are you married?” He asked as if the answer to Makalaurë’s previous question depended on the answer of this later one. 

Makalaurë was at first startled by such a random and intriguing question but did not delay to answer him. “I was married in Tirion, but I became estranged from my wife after the flight of the Noldor. I would not be surprised if she opted to remarry at this point.” 

“Do you love her still?” The minstrel asked in a frail voice, with such a fragile look that it looked like he could shatter at any moment. 

Makalaurë shook his head. “No. In truth, I think I never did. You could sort of say our marriage was arranged by our parents, and we barely knew each other. The only time we kissed was during our wedding ceremony, and I cannot say either of us enjoyed it very much.”

The minstrel smiled with the same relief one would feel after being liberated from a dreadful burden. “Then Eru, I am alright.” He pushed his glossy lips against Makalaurë’s roughened ones, and despite the initial shock, he began to kiss back, with the sweetest taste Makalaurë was ever to enjoy. 

At last, the kiss was over, and Makalaurë’s thoughts were far too scattered to come up with a single sentence. “You… you… feel the same way?”

“I felt the same way ever since I laid my eyes on you when you collapsed on the seat. Was that because of me?” He asked with the same candidness of an elfling. 

Makalaurë nodded. “I am glad it was. Otherwise, I probably would have never met you.”

“I am indeed glad for that seat,” his minstrel said, and another kiss was made to seal those words. _Was this what love was meant to feel like?_ Makalaurë wondered, and the answer was clear to him; indeed it was. He, who of all people did not expect to ever be loved again, was getting kissed for a second time.

His glorious realization, however, was brutally ended when the door was opened by his brother Curufinwë. “Kano, Nelyo says that there is no need to cover for him anymo...” Curufinwë’s baffled expression was one hard to go by, and Makalaure even turned not to miss it. “...re. See you later, loverboys. Kano, if you happen to need… protection there is some in the bathing room. There are also quite a few toys I wouldn’t recommend using…”

“CURVO. GET. OUT!” Makalaurë yelled, closing the door behind him. “Pervert.” He turned to his minstrel, who was slightly agitated by such a surprise. “You must forgive my brother. He will probably spread the news all around my extended family. I wouldn’t be surprised if even your march warden knew.”  
  
“I do not quite mind. Why, that shall teach Mablung a lesson!” He said, staring down at the floor, his tanned complexion blushing red. 

Makalaurë frowned at the sound of the name. “Mablung?” That had been the name of the elf next to him, wasn’t it? “Was he the one that made you cry?” 

It was now time for his harpist to be left speechless. “I… well, no.”

But Makalaurë was resolved to get to the bottom of the situation. “Why were you crying then? Is it something Mablung said? Did you argue? 

He then tried to deny it. “It was not his fault. He was only trying to help me, or at least he thought it so. I just… Before I met you, I fell in love with the daughter of the king. I was foolish for thinking that she could ever love me, while she thought of me as a brother. Mablung thought that… well, that you would be the same. That you would only be another heartbreak for me.”

Makalaurë was only further confused. How could someone as fair as he think about such things? “Why would I not love you? From the moment I saw you, I was charmed by you, by your radiance, by your beauty. How could anyone else think otherwise? How could the king’s daughter think otherwise? Not even her beauty could compare to yours,” he was about to intervene, but Makalaurë cut him off. “I have seen her once. Just a mere glimpse of her, while my brothers and I were attempting to negotiate with Thingol. But I saw her anyways, and I deem you fairer still.”

His minstrel chuckled in a lame attempt to sound cheerful, his cheeks blazing with fluster. “Mablung thought you were straight.”

“Once I thought the same. But now everything has changed, now that I have met you.”

The minstrel raised an eyebrow in curiosity. “And now? What do you think you are?”

Makalaurë shrugged. “I have never fancied sex if that is what you mean. In fact, I... am still a virgin.” He expected the minstrel to be wide-eyed and gasping with surprise as most people were when it came the time to reveal what many deemed a shameful confession, but instead he looked rather amused. “I do not know why. My younger brothers, however, are the exact opposite. It is as if everyone fancied it except myself. I am probably a rare case, I suppose. Although I do not know what that makes me.” 

“You are not the only one that feels like this.” He replied, much to Makalaurë’s surprise.

“How could you possibly know?” 

“Because I myself feel exactly the same way. I have done so for as long as I remember.”

Makalaurë fell silent for a brief moment, immersed in thought. “But how could you? How could someone as beautiful as yourself…”

The harpist shook his head, smirking. “Beauty has nothing to do with sex, Kano. And besides, you are beautiful too. Handsome, should I say.” 

Makalaure began to fluster once more. “It’s the first time you call me Kano, before you only called me Maglor. Although,” he said, remembering the first thoughts that had come to his mind earlier. “I do not even know your name.” 

His harpist laughed, and he swayed his lustrous hair. “Daeron. Or Dairon, as some say it.”

“Daeron,” he said lovingly until he jumped out of his seat out of remembrance. “Wait, you are THE Daeron of Doriath? Daeron, the loremaster and greatest poet and musician of the Eldar? Daeron, who I always aspired to be like?” 

“The very same one. Although I do not understand why you are so surprised, for I am no better than you in the matter of song. Why did you look up to me in the first place?”

Makalaurë was left speechless for a second. “Are you joking with me? You were everything I wanted to be as a musician! You knew the songs of power, you even made an alphabet for the dwarves, your music is among the fairest I have ever heard… AND TO FINISH IT OFF YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL AS WELL?”

“Well, what did you expect, for me to be like Rumil of Tirion? Not all loremasters are quite as frenzy looking as Rumil, and you should know that as a singer yourself. Do you think we all wear fake glasses and flower themed robes?”

Makalaurë shook his head. “I guess not.” This time he got closer to Daeron, still not entirely believing he had just kissed one of his favorite loremasters in Arda. “I guess love comes in unexpected ways.”  
  
“It sure does. I would have never thought I would ever get to meet Maglor the singer, second son of Feanor and writer of the _Noldolantë_ , _”_ said Daeron, approaching him closer. 

“And I would have never thought that I would meet Daeron of Doriath, greatest of the loremasters and creator of the Dwarvish runes, as well as creator of multiple works of exquisite delicacy and…” His talking was ceased by Daeron’s kiss, the third and possibly the best of all, finally knowing who his beloved was.

“I must leave now. Mablung said to leave around night time,” he said in a sorrowful voice, and Makalaurë’s heart sank.

“Will I see you again?” He asked, yet fearing the response. 

Daeron opened the window, revealing now a dark mantle with stars shimmering. “Someday,” he said, his voice with a hint of sorrow. “Someday, when our kingdoms come together and when my king no longer isolates our lands, that day we may meet again. Until then, look at the sky, look at the stars and think of me. And when I do the same, I shall think of you as well.” 

“That is a cliché, but I will take it,” Makalaurë said, and both laughed in spite of the comment. But then, Makalaurë looked serious again. “You could stay here, stay here with me. You could come to my gap, next to Himring.” 

But Daeron did not accept the opportunity, with sorrow in his heart. “I belong to my king and to my people, despite how stubborn Thingol may be. Besides, if I do not go now I am afraid Mablung and Beleg will roast me and drag me over there.”

Makalaurë understood. But just before Daeron was about to leave, he took the only ring he wore off his finger. “This was the ring I gave to my wife during our wedding. She returned it to me, not wishing to keep it. It has the star of my father after all, but I would like you to keep it.”

Daeron kissed his lips a fourth time and let Makalaurë place the ring as they were about to leave. A fifth kiss was made to seal their farewell, but before that, Daeron uttered his last petition to Makalaurë. “Write to me. I am sure letters can still come through the girdle.” 

Makalaurë smiled and shouted as the Sindar departed. “I will.” 

***

After the sons of Fëanor had returned to Himring Makalaurë walked towards his chambers for the night, his heart heavy with the memory of Daeron. He could still feel his glossy lips against his, and his warm, almost ethereal touch in his hand. He opened the door of the chamber, only to find all of his brothers and several of his cousins gathered together, awaiting him. 

“Congratulations, brother!” Tyelkormo shouted to the top of his lungs, almost frightening him.

“Congratulations on what? On losing the love of my life and possibly never seeing him again?” He asked bitterly. 

Findarato’s eyes widened. “Did it really go that bad?”

“Did what go bad? What is going on here?” Asked a puzzled Makalaurë. 

Findaráto eyed Curufinwë and then he proceeded to talk. “We thought that you…”

“...had lost…” A red-faced Carnistir added. 

“...your, you know…” Ambarussa continued. 

“...virginity,” concluded Findekáno, which earned him the stares of everyone around him. “What? No one else was going to say it. They don’t call me the ‘valiant’ for nothing.” 

“ **WHAT?** ” Makalaurë yelled, in a voice so full of incredulity that shook all those who were there. 

Russandol, who had been covering his face with the one hand he had got left, emitted a long-suppressed sigh. “I told everyone that this was an awfully terrible idea, but would anyone heed my words? No. It will be a nice surprise, they said. Atarinkë knows what is going on, they said. Kano will probably like it, they said. He has been a virgin for so long and this deserves a celebration, they said.”

Findekáno stepped in the matter. “Maitimo, you have to admit that you are the most boring member of our family. Nobody can take you seriously when you are that serious anymore.”

“Not if we count Celeborn as a member of our family,” Russandol objected.

“True. Nobody can beat old Teleporno in that,” Findekáno reckoned. 

“So Kano, did you get laid or no?” Asked Carnistir crudely. 

Makalaurë, who had forgotten he was the center of the conversation, jumped out of his seat at the question. “ **NO!** Who even told you this in the first place?”

They all mutually stared at Curufinwë, who only remarked on the matter. “You should have seen it coming. I was the one that caught you in the middle of making out with the Sinda.” 

Makalaure’s mood was already getting irritable. “His name is actually Daeron of Doriath, and no, we were not making out, it was just a kiss!” He huffed. 

Findaráto stood up from his chair out of excitement. “YOU KISSED THE DAERON OF DORIATH, MINSTREL OF THE KING, LOREMASTER, GREATEST MUSICIAN AND MAKER OF RUNES? How I envy you.”

Tyelkormo ignored Findaráto’s hyperventilation and continued to ask uncomfortable questions. “So, if you didn’t anal sex then surely you must have done oral at least, right?”

The question only made him feel like fainting. “We did not have sex **AT ALL**! Daeron doesn’t even like sex in the first place!”

There was a sudden silence in the chambers. “Then what did you do with him that whole time?”

“Talk! What else would we do?” Seeing nearly half of his brothers’ face in apparent confusion only convinced to leave even more. “Now if you shall excuse me, I am going to bed. Good night.”

He walked up to his bedroom that he would share with Russandol for the night. He was glad that it was him and not Tyelkormo, who would have surely narrated for him his latest sexual intercourse, and all the repulsing details from it. 

He sat down and opened his satchel only to find Daeron’s pipes inside. He raised an eyebrow in curiosity, for he had thought his lover had taken the instrument with him instead of putting them in his belongings. Marveled by the structure of the instrument, he ran his fingers through the pipes, and soon he found himself playing them. Hastily, he grabbed a quill and some ink and began writing on the first piece of paper he found, for a song began forming in his mind. 

_Something in the way he moves_

_Attracts me like no other lover_

_Something in the way he woos me_

_I don't want to leave him now_

_You know I believe and how_

_Somewhere in his smile he knows_

_That I don't need no other lover_

_Something in his style that shows me_

_I don't want to leave him now_

_You know I believe and how_

_You're asking me will my love grow_

_I don't know, I don't know_

_You stick around now it may show_

_I don't know, I don't know_

_Something in the way he knows_

_And all I have to do is think of him_

_Something in the things he shows me_

_I don't want to leave him now_

_You know I believe and how_ _  
_

His writing ceased to an end, and he secretly hid the parchment in one of the drawers. Makalaurë opened a window perhaps out of longing and stared at the night sky with his eyes. Would Daeron ever be likely to return? This he did not know, yet he found some comfort in the last words his lover had said to him. _Until then, look at the sky, look at the stars and think of me. And when I do the same, I shall think of you as well._ And with such thoughts, Maglor took the covers of his bed and rapidly fell asleep, dreaming of kissing his minstrel’s lips.

**Author's Note:**

> Songs featured are by The Beatles, 'I've Just Seen a Face' and 'Something' (but with the pronouns swapped).


End file.
